


A Surprise in Black and Gold

by purpleann



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme, Profanity, costume porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleann/pseuds/purpleann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "Someone looks fantastic dressed up. Their significant other is unbearably turned on."</p><p>In which teenage Rickon is a little stubborn like Robb, a little angsty like Jon, and a little bit of a horndog like Uncle Brandon. </p><p>***</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Surprise in Black and Gold

Rickon squirmed and pouted, and Sansa frowned at him and tugged harder on his cloak. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care one whit. She fussed and pulled at the heavy fur, trying to make it lie “just so” over his shoulders, whatever in the seven hells that meant. She struggled with the silver wolf's head clasp, and Rickon knew it was petty, but he made no move to help her. He could have bent over a bit, or even fastened the clasp himself, as Sansa couldn't really reach, and the position was quite awkward. But he didn't. She scowled at him, and Rickon refused to feel guilty.

 

At nearly six and ten, he towered over both his sisters, as well as nearly everybody else around him. He wasn't broad and bulky like Robb had been, but daily training made him rangy and lean, which Arya said was better for sword fighting anyway. But being tall and strong and the bloody fucking Lord of Winterfell apparently meant nothing, as everyone around him still felt quite free to tell him what to do, and expected him to _do as he was told_ , as if he was still just a little boy.

 

“Honestly, you'd think you were going to your execution, the way you're carrying on!” Sansa threw her hands up in exasperation, and gave up on the silver clasp. Rickon was happy to let the thick, fur-trimmed cloak fall to the floor in a heap. It was too heavy to wear indoors anyway, and he was already wearing too much, with the chainmail and the ceremonial armor and all that rot. Fucking ridiculous it was, going through all this trouble, just for _a girl_.

 

He had tried to appeal to Arya, but she only scoffed at him, saying if she had to dress up then so did he, and that wearing fancy clothes was hardly the most awful thing he'd have to do as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He bloody well _knew that,_ of course, he wasn't _stupid_ , but was all this pomp and frippery really necessary? It was only a meal, when you got right down to it!

 

One of the things Rickon had recently been ordered to do was get married. Sansa said he needed a wife, and Jon said it had to be some highborn girl (the bloody hypocrite), and the two of them and Jon's queens and whoever else decided that it should be the Baratheon girl. Tonight in the Great Hall of Winterfell, he would be hosting his betrothed and what remained of her people, as well as the King and Queens of Westeros. Sansa had been going on about it for months, as if it was some huge _thing_ , even though the so-called "guests of honor" were only Jon and his wife and his other wife.

 

Rickon didn't want a wife, even though Jon had two and apparently thought it was a great thing. Talking about heirs and such was _boring_ and anyway he had just started to enjoy the attentions of Marya, a pretty blonde who worked in the kitchens, and who had the most amazing teats. He knew Sansa wouldn't approve (seven hells if he _never_ heard another lecture about not fathering bastards...), but he was pretty sure she _really_ wouldn't approve if he was messing about with Marya and _also_ had a wife. Probably his wife wouldn't approve, either. Rickon already had quite a few people about who were happy to tell him what to do day and night, he wasn't keen on adding another. The girl wasn't even a Northerner!

 

Rickon also didn't think he _needed_ a wife, and he made sure to let everybody know it, including the girl herself when they first met some weeks ago. She was nothing special to look at (nowhere near as pretty as Marya), but the worst was how quiet and _boring_ she was. She hardly said anything to him at all, so Rickon felt quite free to tell her how much he _didn't_ want to get married. The daft girl said nothing at all to him in reply, and for some reason that put him off even more.

 

He said as much to Arya and Sansa after, and Arya just smacked him in the head and Sansa made that noise she made when she was scandalized. Arya said the Baratheon girl probably wasn't too keen on getting married either, and that Rickon would do well to stop thinking everything was about _him_. Rickon didn't understand what that even meant, and why both his sisters were angry with him now, if apparently he and the Baratheon girl actually agreed on something. Wasn't that a good thing?

 

Sansa gave up fussing over him and started fussing over Arya instead. They bickered over whether it would be proper for Arya to wear her sword with her dress, and Rickon downed a goblet (or two) of Arbor Red while they were distracted. Finally it was time, and the three of them made their way down to the Great Hall, Sansa and Arya leading the way, with Rickon trailing behind.

 

Shaggy appeared out of nowhere, just as the herald announced the “ _Lord of Winterfell”_ , along with a bunch of trumpets and other nonsense, and Rickon was glad to have his familiar nearby. He had to grant the girl something, she wasn't afraid of his direwolf, and Shaggy actually seemed to like her. He didn't snarl at her anyway, and that was about as high a praise as one could hope for.

 

Rickon sank his hand into Shaggy's thick black fur, and made his way to the top of the dais and into the great stone chair of the ancient Kings of Winter without looking at anyone. He was probably supposed to acknowledge the King and Queens in some special way, but it was only _Jon_ for fuck's sake, and of course Sansa was going to be cross, but Rickon couldn't even care...he just wanted this to be _over_.

 

He sat in the great stone chair, and remembered a time long ago, that seemed another lifetime now, when it was his big brother in this chair instead of him. First his eldest brother, and then his crippled brother. If Rickon tried really hard, he could vaguely recall what it was like to see his father in this chair, but the memory was so faint it was possible he only _wished_ he could remember. What was always easy to remember, was how it felt to wonder why everyone always left him, and being afraid (but somehow always knowing) that they wouldn't ever come back.

 

But Sansa and Arya came back. And even if Rickon didn't remember them at first, somehow he had known instinctively who they were; he would have known even if Shaggy hadn't reacted to them the way he did. He knew they were his pack, and he was secretly grateful they had no plans to leave Winterfell to get married themselves, even if he would never admit it out loud.

 

The feeling of Shaggy leaving his side pulled him out of his impending depression, and finally Rickon looked up at his betrothed, and suddenly his mind went blank. Shaggy wandered over to her, where she sat regally in the massive stone chair reserved for the Lady of Winterfell. Shaggy nosed at her hand gently, and then settled himself down, resting his huge head on her small, slipper-clad feet. Rickon's eyes wandered over her form slowly and greedily, and the more he saw of his soon-to-be-bride, the more the chatter of the Great Hall and the sting of old memories faded away into nothing.

 

She was dressed in her family's colors, of course, pitch black and bright gold. Seeing her like this was like looking at a completely different girl, like looking at a Queen. The heavy folds of her dress pooled around the base of her stone chair, and blended with Shaggy's fur at her feet. But the black velvet narrowed at her waist, and was lashed to her body in a way that made Rickon's hands feel sweaty and his cheeks feel hot. Cloth-of-gold had been braided into long ropes, and were twisted around her small waist and crossed under and around her breasts in a most fascinating way. Rickon felt sure he would have noticed curves like _that_ when they had first met, but it's possible he was too busy protesting the whole affair to get a good look at her.

 

Regardless he was certainly enjoying the view now! She looked over at him and smirked a bit, and Rickon realized he had been caught staring. He grinned back at her, unrepentant, and noticed for the first time how blue her eyes were. They were a curiously dark blue, full of mischief and daring, and Rickon couldn't believe he ever thought her dull and boring. Her hair was black and glossy, and fell about her shoulders in loose, heavy waves. Rickon wondered whether it was within his rights to command his wife to never braid her hair or wear it up ever again.

 

She leaned over to him, and Rickon felt his mouth go dry, anticipating the no-doubt-spectacular view he was about to get down her bodice (being tall was almost always a good thing, but especially in times like these). She gave him a small smile, and he noticed how it tugged at the grayish skin around her cheek and jaw and neck, where the greyscale scars marred her pale skin. But Rickon was soon distracted by her lips...they were full and bow-shaped, and nearly the exact color of a ripe winter peach, and he couldn't help but wonder if they were just as sweet.

 

Her smile widened suddenly, and Rickon realized with a start how far he had leaned over to her, and that _yes_ , he was right, the view down the front of her dress was _indeed_ as spectacular as he imagined, but more importantly: his betrothed had been speaking to him, while he was busy leering at her. He blinked a few times, and managed to clear his mind enough to speak.

 

“Forgive me, my lady. The...excitement of the occasion has distracted me. What were you saying?”

 

Shireen laughed out loud, and Rickon couldn't help smiling back at her. Her laugh was musical and absolutely enchanting, and the sound of it, and her blue eyes, and those gold ropes wrapped tightly around her waist were making him feel dizzy and his breeches feel tight.

 

“My lord...” she whispered, and Rickon's eyes were once again drawn to those juicy looking lips, “your people, they await your blessing.” And with this, she tilted her head the slightest bit, and Rickon tore his eyes away from her to the direction she indicated...

 

...and saw five hundred faces looking back at him, in near silence, waiting for him to begin the feast with the traditional blessing. Jon was smirking at him, and his queens were smiling indulgently. Arya was rolling her eyes, and Sansa looked mortified. Apparently the people of Winterfell were used to a different sort of beginning to a feast than watching their liege lord make eyes at his lady. Rickon just smiled the smile that had gotten him out of trouble since he was six years old, and leaned over and kissed his bride-to-be.

 


End file.
